


crows are loyal

by keraunos



Category: Gintama
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Implied Sexual Content, Loyalty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 03:34:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6036325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keraunos/pseuds/keraunos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man is smiling at him.<br/>He will never forget this sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	crows are loyal

**Author's Note:**

> a little something I wrote for my girlfriend on valentine's! it's the first time i'm posting something in ao3 and i'm kind of nervous... there's not much information about utsuro in canon as of yet, so please, take this fic with a pinch of salt!

—It all comes to an end quicker than he expects.

Body falls over as soon as the blade is pulled back, as if a puppet’s— just managing to stand on its own legs thanks to the strings that are holding its weight, until they are cut down, abruptly. Head meets ground with a loud thud.

It _hurts_ —

The pain, it takes him a few seconds to register. Slow. So does realizing his current state; he’s laying on his back, and the cut is deep— that sword has cut through the flesh, pierced him from side to side, after all. _Ah_. Limbs feel heavy. No matter how hard he tries to lift his arm and press his hand to the wound, his body won’t move an inch. It’s gradually getting harder to keep his eyelids open, and he can already feel the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Thick. He coughs up, and though it takes him some effort, he manages to lift his head enough to look down.

Red. It’s all red _red red red red_

It blooms all over the right side of his body, stains his clothes, colors the ground crimson. And it hurts. Lips part, but he cannot muster the strength to make a sound; it simply does not come out. Nor can he move from the spot he’s in. When he looks up, lost, bemused, he can see the blue sky above him. Ironic, isn’t it? Fingers twitch, bloody lips tighten and eyelids close.

_Yes_ , he realizes. _I’m_ _going to die here_.

And he is so young. All too young to be holding a sword. Too young to be standing in the battlefield. The price for his bravery — was it bravery, really? Or mere foolishness, perhaps? — will be his life. He’s going to die right where he lies stretched out. It will all be over soon. The pain is so intense that the boy can no longer think clearly. His head is swimming. He will no longer see the sky. It will all be over soon. It will all be over soon.

If it’s going to end, then he hopes it will not take long. So he repeats these words to himself over and over, like a mantra. A hopeless plea.

He just wants to be put to sleep.

He just—

—opens his eyes.

Body stiffens all of sudden. Breath hitches. For a second, he gathers enough strength to let out a low whimper, to keep his eyes open and try to focus. There’s someone— there’s someone there, kneeling by his side. His sight is still slightly blurry, his mind hazy— but that’s not the enemy, he notices. That’s not— he _doesn’t_ know this person. A face with such soft features is entirely foreign to the boy.

Eyes bright red, the color of the blood painting his chest like a canvas.

Hair long and silky, falling gracefully over his shoulders. If able, he would like to touch it.

He tries to speak up, to move at all, to lift his arm again. It’s all futile. Even though he’s still conscious, his body has considerably weakened. It feels feeble, and has lost a lot of blood. Since he understands this, he doesn’t push himself further. It’s enough of a miracle that he hasn’t died yet, after all. Looking up, the boy meets the stranger’s eyes.

Mesmerizing, they are. The man is holding his hand up, a large cut across his palm. Blood is dripping from it, raining down on the wound left by the sword. He breathes again, softer this time.

The man is smiling at him.

He will never forget this sight.

As his eyelids fall shut once more, the boy feels the pain fade away. Slow. It’s slow— but I feel better, he thinks. He can think now. Breathing in, then out, his body begins to relax. The sound of the blood drops falling down might as well lull him to sleep.

He will _never_ forget this sight.

_Drip, drip drip…_

* * *

Oboro cracks his eye open.

It’s dark, and it takes him a while to get his sight accustomed to the lack of light. He feels tired, he registers immediately. Weary. War is merciless and unforgiving, he knows well— his body does too. Countless battles have scarred him all over, and he has lost his right arm and left eye to his enemies.

(Quite the irony, again, that what he took from that disciple of Shouyou has been taken from him as well.)

Long fingers, running through his hair and tangling on silvery locks manage to distract Oboro from his thoughts. He shifts in the mattress, silken sheets brushing pale skin, and turns towards the man lying down next to him— even in the dim moonlight, he can make out the shape of his naked body, of his sculptor-perfect face, of his curved lips.

_Utsuro-sama_.

“Oh, my. Did I wake you up?”

Despite his words, he’s smiling.

He always is, Oboro is quick to remind himself. The man’s grimace could be regarded as cold, mocking even— but he knows that isn’t the case when it’s directed at _him_. He has known for a while, now.

“You did not,” he replies afterwards, lightly shaking his head. “I was having a light sleep.”

Utsuro nods in understanding, and keeps caressing his hair with soft, oh soft fingers. Relaxing into his touch, Oboro leans closer— he wouldn’t have dared to do such thing before, ever in his life, but he is gradually getting used to this.

_This_ is how he refers to it, because he is not sure he should name it.

The first kiss they shared is carved deep in his memory, a fleeting touch of lips he would have never, could have never even thought of.

(It was inconceivable, really, that the man who saved his life and took him in would develop an interest of that sort in him. He was unimportant, irrelevant. No more than a baby crow to whom he had taught how to fly after nearly losing its wings once— a mere subordinate; Utsuro had thousands.)

After the first, there was a second. And a third. And so on.

Oboro was unable to react to his advances— it wasn’t that he was displeased with them. He just wasn’t worthy. Why— _why_ would an almost godlike existence bother himself with someone like _him_? The man could not find an answer to his question; not even as Utsuro’s hands were travelling all over his hot body, as he was kissing him on the mouth and neck and collarbone, as he was parting his lips and taking him in, as he was thrusting his hips forward and slamming into him with all his might. Even as he groaned his name before climaxing, Oboro continued to remain still and wonder. He wondered, wondered wondered wondered _wondered_

_This is the man I have sworn eternal loyalty to, thus I will always accept; I shall never stop him from doing as he wishes_. That’s what he believed. But still—

“You matter to me, Oboro,” Utsuro had told him once.

It was just the two of them in the main cabin of the ship, looking through the wide windows; a vast sea of stars, galaxies, planets and nebulae was opening up before them. Though Oboro turned his head to look at him, but his lord continued to admire the sight before them.

(His name had a pleasant ring to it on Utsuro’s lips. He did not tell him.)

“I wish to keep you by my side until the end.”

Had Utsuro not said those words to him, Oboro would have not believed he meant something to him. Anything, at all. He had assumed he was a servant— loyal like no other, but a servant nonetheless. And so he bowed to his words, because his mouth was failing him.

No, he truly had nothing to say, for words would not be enough to express just how thankful he was.

But he was no immortal being. Although Utsuro’s altana blood ran through his veins, he knew it would not last forever. Someday, at some point, he would perish.

_Until then, I will be yours. Until death do us apart, I—_

“Oboro.”

Blinking, he looks up and meets Utsuro’s eyes again. Lost in thought again, he was— how embarrassing of him. His lord merely replies with a chuckle, and lowers his hand to his cheek. And it’s gentle, his touch is always so gentle… Oboro almost feels bad for giving anything in return, and so he lifts his arm and tangles his fingers on long, soft hair.

He’s still trying to learn how to return this sort of… affection, but Utsuro hums, and he sounds satisfied.

For him, that is enough.

They kiss again, and it’s slow and deliberate. Almost tender. Whenever he feels Utsuro’s lips on his own, Oboro’s chest tightens and it becomes hard to move, hard to think, even hard to breath. But he doesn’t hesitate to press back this time, and tilts his head to a side to kiss him better, deeper. He wants to be able to take everything Utsuro will give him— and give back, as much as he can.

_Until death do us apart, you shall have my all._

**Author's Note:**

> “You have me. Until ever last star in the galaxy dies.  
> You have me.” 
> 
> ― Amie Kaufman, Illuminae


End file.
